Mostly Memories
by emptyonideas
Summary: Chivalry's not dead. Turns out it was just frozen for a while. Steve/OC *Hiatus*
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

* * *

_To whom it may concern:_

_The recent killings in Seattle and New York were done by a group called S.O.T. or the Soldiers of Tomorrow. They have three headquarters, all with top security measures but I only know of the one stationed in New York, on the east end of Long Island. _

_It started out as an elaborate science experiment but I was never cleared to know the purpose. All I know is that they didn't stop after their failures. They take people with no jobs or family, so society is always late to realize they're gone and not that motivated to find them. _

_Their memories are modified so they don't remember anything...if they survive. _

Steve put down the file he'd been given, having finished reading the letters inside. There were about six in total, all revealing different pieces of a puzzle about a new group they were fighting against. The person who had written them had obviously been involved at some level, but not one of the letters held any information about their motives or future plans.

"We are researching S.O.T. and making progress, but our biggest jumping off point have been these letters." Nick Fury looked his usual serious self, but something about not having a firm idea made him seem even more formidable than usual.

"Where were they sent from?" Natasha asked, her eyes scanning over her own file with speed.

"Six letters, six different places. New York, New Jersey, Washington, Indiana, Florida, and Mexico."

"So he's on the move," Natasha said with a smirk, flipping her folder shut.

"Well I'd say if he's giving up precious intel, he's probably not on the best of terms with S.O.T.," Clint offered, rolling his eyes.

"So they're looking for him?" Steve asked, directing his gaze back to Fury.

"Not exactly. They don't know about the letters...yet. Their attentions are elsewhere but we have found out about the writer and I do believe they'll want them back sooner than later."

"Do you believe this guy doesn't know why they're doing this?" Steve asked.

"You can ask her yourself."

Tony actually stirred, but the reddened tiredness remained in his eyes.

"We have_ her_?" Bruce asked with surprise, fiddling with his glasses.

"Not yet. But two of you will go to retrieve her. I'll need you to be..._persuasive_."

"You think we'll need to be?" Steve asked curiously. He was still uncomfortable about missions with double agents or traitors. In his time, there was a clear cut enemy. Now, there seemed to be varying degrees of evil.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Fury said, rising from his chair.

He was about to exit the room when Bruce stopped him.

"Alright I'll ask...why's that?"

Fury paused in the doorway, an agent already waiting on the other side to relay some information to him.

"Because we killed her father."

A silence enveloped the group, causing them all to exchange tense glances. Fury seemed to be waiting for something, hovering between their room and the hallway. Steve wanted to speak, but he didn't really know what to say. We as in them? Or we as in S.H.I.E.L.D.? Either way, it wasn't something he was entirely comfortable with.

"Well," Tony drawled, sitting up in his chair. "You've piqued my interest."

* * *

_Just a short beginning. Let me know what you think! :) _


	2. Chapter 2

_"Dad...I'm not really comfortable doing this." _

_"It will help them Olivia," he told me, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. "The experiments aren't meant to be painful, but they can be. You'll be erasing the memory of pain, and that's the least we can do can't we?"_

_I shrugged, swallowing my words. I didn't like delving into people's minds—memories were intricate and personal, and in a lot of cases best left alone. Plus, it turned my body into a stone and made me exhausted for days afterward. Sometimes people's memories would blur into my own, giving me horrific nightmares._

_"What are these experiments?" I asked, rubbing my temples as he swiveled in his desk chair. _

_"Olivia...it's complicated." He pushed aside the almost falling stack of books on his desk to look into my eyes. "They're trying to cure diseases, I know that much. But they're very secretive here. Even I don't know the full extent of what they do."_

_"Then why should I help them?"_

_He sighed—we'd had this conversation before. His eyes looked tired under his small round glasses._

_"Please, honey, I feel we're making a difference. Do it for me."_

And then, I always woke up. With his words ringing in my ears—_Do it for me_. Well I had, and it hadn't gotten me anywhere. And it certainly didn't help him in the end.

The dream had been the only stable thing about my life these days. No matter where I was, there _it_ was, reminding me of the awful things I'd been a part of. Had let happen. Because I should have pushed to know what my father was involved in—but instead I'd let him talk me out of my doubts. Let him use me.

I flipped my legs over the side of the bed and let them dangle for a moment above the hideously green carpet. It looked like it was going to sprout legs and run to haunt my closet at any minute, but I put my feet down anyway and made my way toward my suitcase.

I'd already been here three days—a new personal record, but I'd been running low on money and this was a cheap place to stay. I was soon going to have to give up hotels all together and maybe buy an old car to get around in.

To think, my first cross-country road trip and I was alone and on the run. I had been planning a trip like this, except it involved more people and a little less fear and anxiety. Some, but less.

I grabbed a shirt and headed for the bathroom. After cleaning out the soap and shampoo, I would be on my way to my next destination. Even I didn't know where that would be.

My feet stuck to the cold white tiles and I looked up into the mirror. There were bulbs surrounding the sides, but I couldn't feel like less of a movie star. My hair was short and messy, as usual, but it was my eyes that always unnerved me. They were the same as his.

_Do it for me_.

I could picture his gaze, feel it on me as if he were standing just a few feet away. I saw the same blue in every wave and every piece of sky I was under.

But why couldn't he ever do anything for me?

* * *

"Beachside Inn. Terribly appropriate but horribly unoriginal," Tony remarked, cracking his knuckles as they made their way to the back entrance.

"Do you have to comment on everything?" Steve asked, feeling vulnerable without his shield. Fury told them this girl, Olivia, would be hard to convince, but she wasn't a fighter. They didn't want to overwhelm her with their suits and shields.

"I think I just got bed bugs from looking at this place. Natasha, would you care to check?"

She glared at him, before moving to the front of the group. Clint and Bruce had stayed behind, so just him and Tony followed her through the door, looking around corners as they went. One worker gave them a suspicious look, but carried on with his business. Steve rolled his eyes at the care for security.

"Now I have a headache so my vote is to knock her out and carry her there," Tony suggested with a smirk.

Steve rolled his eyes, following Natasha around the corner.

"We're talking to her. She's not a trained fighter," Steve said sternly.

"Has anybody updated you on the modern phrase of having a stick stuck up your—"

"Shut up, Tony. We're entering the lobby. Her room is on the seventh floor. I think we're better off taking the stairs," Natasha told them, smoothing out her clothes. Steve had rarely seen her in anything but uniform and couldn't help but think that she still stood out in normal attire.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let's get on with it, if you two are gonna be like this."

"It'll be no big deal. In and out," Steve said, following Natasha through an outdated black and white lobby. There was a table but no chairs and the man at the counter had his eyes glued to his magazine. Steve could hear Tony sigh as they pushed open the creaking door to the stairs.

"That's what they always say."

* * *

I'd only had one foot out the door when I felt something was wrong. It was too quiet up here—and since I knew teenagers were having Spring Break just a floor down, my senses were on high alert.

I clutched my suitcase to myself, looking around. The walls were the color the sand, and the doorways bright green. There were no crevices or tables in the hall for anybody to hide under, so maybe I was going crazy.

I took quick steps toward the elevator, looking around as I went. Maybe it was later than I thought, and everyone had gone to the beach.

I pushed the button and the elevator came almost immediately. I looked up in surprise at the man in the elevator—a tall, looming guy with big muscles and almost black hair. He looked a little too old to be on Spring Break.

"Good morning," he greeted, nodding at me with a smile.

I stared at him for a second, pressing the button for the lobby.

"Or...not so good?" he asked with a chuckle, shaking his head.

"Oh sorry," I said, rusty with polite chatter. "Just woke up. Good morning."

He looked like a movie star, but I doubted he was if he was staying here. There was something oddly familiar about his face.

"Have you been staying here long?"

"Just a few days," I said, smiling tentatively up at him.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah, time to move on."

"What are you running from?"

I felt tingling up my arms as my senses heightened.

"Excuse me?"

And then it hit me—he wasn't famous, but I _had_ seen him before. He was a worker at my father's company. I wasn't used to seeing him without a crisp black uniform and a door to guard.

"We've been looking for you, Miss Hawthorne."

He smiled then, and I felt the familiar pain in my chest that accompanied my heart skipping a beat. I quickly pushed the next floor button—but he was faster. He grabbed my wrist and jerked it back, causing me to cry out as splinters of pain shot from my fingers to my elbow.

Before I could do anything, he'd pushed the large red emergency button and covered my mouth with a large, warm hand.

* * *

_Thanks so much to those who read and reviewed! More alerts than anything, but I'll take it. Although it would be lovely to hear what you think! _


	3. Chapter 3

_"For safety reasons you won't be in the same room as the...participants. There will be two way glass and they won't be able to see you."_

_I looked up at Trevor who smiled reassuringly. His smile always made me better, but this time it wasn't quite working. _

_"It works best if I'm touching the person."_

_Trevor pushed his glasses up his nose. They were black and thick, but he wore them well. He told me that he needed them so people would take him seriously as a scientist. Everyone here was always so serious that it felt nice to work with someone who could crack a joke._

_"You'll be as close as possible. You just need to concentrate a little harder."_

_"And what exactly will I be seeing?" I asked lowly, raising my eyes to meet his brown ones._

_"We're looking for treatments for disease." Trevor moved toward me, his white lab coat matching every other white object in the room. "They won't be...nice memories. Just try to sort through and erase the experiment from their mind."_

_"But how will they know they've been cured if they can't remember it?"_

_Trevor shifted on his feet and broke eye contact._

_"The drug isn't a miracle. Science and medicine...take time. Breakthroughs happen by pushing through the parts like this. Don't you want to be a part of changing the word?"_

_My stomach fell to my shoes, but I willed myself not to think the worst. Because if I did, I would not be able to do what they were asking. But the curiosity was beating into my brain, controlling my tongue before I had a chance to swallow my words._

_"Are you telling me these people are going to die?" _

_Trevor didn't answer, and he lost the opportunity altogether when my father walked in with his boss. He was gray haired but imposing and I knew Trevor wouldn't say a bad word in front of him._

_"Olivia!" my father called, beckoning me toward the door._

_Trevor gave me one more sad smile before patting my shoulder._

_"Just do your best."_

* * *

I don't know if anybody would have found me if I was unconscious, but for some reason he slung me over his shoulder after giving me a nasty head injury. I could feel the wetness rolling from my chin to my forehead. Just a warm, bloody reminder of my imminent death.

I was too hazy to speak coherent words, but I did make whatever noises I could. I'm sure they came out more like a garbled ghost than a girl asking for help, but I felt like I had been shot in the head and it was the best I could do.

"Shut up Hawthorne," the man demanded, peering around as we walked through the deserted upper floor. It didn't seem right that I was in such pain but surrounded by such cheery bright green walls. "Loman didn't even think two people should go on this mission. What does that say?"

I clenched my teeth. Loman was my father's boss, and as I could gather, much more important than I'd thought him to be. In the only act of defiance I could conjure up, I continued to moan.

"Make another sound and we will do this the hard way."

It didn't seem to matter. I was surprised we had gone upwards but I guess he had some sort of ladder or escape route instead of the crowded lobby. I was facing backwards, but I could tell from his slowed steps that we were probably nearing a door.

I tried to focus my mind, which currently felt like someone had thrown it into a blender and pressed Chop. If I could only concentrate, I could try to force myself into his mind and make him forget his intentions...

But it was no use. I was zapped for days after doing this on a good head, and now I couldn't breathe without seeing blurs and feeling needles.

I was just about to give up when I heard footsteps behind me, heavy and urgent, and definitely multiple.

"Shit."

The man whipped around so fast my head hit against the wall and sent such sharp pains through my already injured head that I saw black. My mind was begging to be overtaken by the urge to pass out, but it was also in overdrive to see who was coming.

I let the tears mix with my blood as my eyes squinted through the pulsating of my scalp.

There were three of them. A woman led the group—she stood out the most to my bad vision because of her red hair. The two men behind her were blurrier, but I could see that one was blonde and the other was tanner with dark facial hair.

"A kidnapping, huh? This will be just like the movies. Steve, please swoop in for rescue."

The dark haired man had spoke, sounding slightly bored. I didn't have time for a reaction before the man released his grip on me and I landed in a heap on the ground.

I moaned in agony. At least I hadn't hit my head again, but the floor was shockingly hard for a carpet and I was suddenly very aware of all my lower limbs.

"Well that was easy," the same man said, smiling at me.

But my kidnapper had just dropped me to fight better and stepped in front of me with a heavy click of his boots. He grinned back and me and winked before he lunged at the girl.

The red head surprised me, before I realized just why this band of mysterious kind strangers had come to help me.

It was kind of their job.

And from the looks of it, they were good at it.

The red head, whose name I couldn't quite recall in my foggy state, was for lack of an eloquent term, kicking ass. I had taken one self-defense lesson and she put my teacher to earth-shattering shame.

When the man came for her throat, she sideswept him before I could blink and had him tumbling to the ground. He looked up at her just as she smirked and stomped hard on his hand. From the look of her heeled boots, I knew it had hurt—and the bone crunching sound that vibrated my ears was an indication as well.

The man cried out, cradling his injured fist. I smiled in satisfaction, for he had hit me with that same hand just moments before.

He was fighting through the pain now, and I noticed the two men with the red head were wondering if they should step in. Well, the blonde one was at least. The dark-haired man was actually leaning against the wall and watching in amusement.

Just as the blonde man took a step forward and opened his mouth, the red-head smashed my attacker in the face, sending him toppling backward with an ultimate thud.

I looked at his face—eyes closed, bloody, and soon to be bruised. If I could move I would kick him in good riddance.

"Olivia Hawthorne?"

* * *

Steve watched as the girl regarded them with a curious look. He felt a stab of guilt that they had gotten there late, and the blood dripping from her face to her shirt wasn't helping. Slowly she nodded her head, and Steve saw the origin of the blood in her matted, dark hair.

Tony spoke before Natasha had a chance.

"Heard a lot about you. Love the damsel in distress thing, but quite frankly I'm a big fan of your letters of intel."

The girl looked like she would have laughed if she wasn't in pain and this wasn't such a serious conversation. Steve rolled his eyes, an action that he'd become accustomed to around Tony.

"Thanks."

Her voice was quieter than he imagined, but he supposed it suited her small frame.

"We're from S.H.I.E.L.D."

Natasha had spoken the short sentence and waited to see the girl's reaction. They were all quiet as they studied her, waiting for her to combust or yell or do...anything. They had killed her father, after all, and Fury had warned she'd be angry.

But she didn't do anything except sit there and looked confused. Steve exchanged a brief look with Natasha.

"Ok? Is that a company or something?"

_She didn't know_.

She didn't know who killed her father, or at least she was a very good actress. Steve was torn between telling the truth (a luxury he hadn't always been afforded) and getting her out of there without a scene.

Natasha opted not to tell her, like any sane person would.

"We're here to take you to...our headquarters. Your letters have been invaluable and we're looking for S.O.T. but we could really use your help."

Natasha had moved forward, but Tony pushed her aside.

"Wait wait—before we get into that, I have something very important to say."

The girl stared up at him, her blue eyes expectant.

"Hi." He grinned, outstretching his hand. "I'm Tony, but I'm sure you knew that."

Steve rolled his eyes_. Again._

"Not everyone in the world knows you, Stark."

"In that case, I'm Tony Stark. I own a multi-billion dollar corporation and save the world in my free time." Tony looked around nonchalantly. "Among other things."

"Yeah, I actually did know who you were."

"Ha! Stark-1, Rogers- 0. Incidentally, also the number of women he's—"

"Shut it Tony," Natasha said rolling her eyes and turning back to Olivia. "Are you ready to go?"

The girl looked torn. She really couldn't move on her own, but she didn't know any of them which Steve guessed was her reason to be hesistant.

"Well?" Natasha asked, hands on her hips.

"Now I see why they sent Natasha, sparkling conversationalist," Tony grumbled to him.

Steve felt compelled to move forward. He had his doubts about the writer of the letters, but when he saw the small girl in front of him he wasn't sure he could hold a grudge.

"I'm Steve," he knelt in front of her. "You can trust us. I know...it's hard to believe that coming from people you don't know, but you did write _us_."

"To warn you. Not join you," the girl said, her voice scratchy.

"She rhymes!" Tony declared. "That must be why she's such a good writer."

She glared at Tony now, and Steve almost laughed. At least he seemed to bother others too.

Natasha knelt beside him, her usual brash manner slightly softened as she peered at the girl's injuries.

"We can fix you up, at least. You can't very well leave here on your own. After that...we'll talk. Deal?"

She looked up at them. She seemed to want to refuse, but Steve noticed her trouble breathing and she finally sighed, her shoulders slumping against the hideous green walls.

"Deal."

* * *

_Well, my Bruce story is doing better, but I do really want to continue this one too. Any thoughts? _


	4. Chapter 4

"Can you walk?"

I looked up Steve. My vision was failing me but I could still see he had handsome features—I briefly noticed a strong jaw before blackness dotted into my vision.

"I don't think so."

I tried to move my legs and they barely twitched. I felt dizzy just thinking about lifting my body.

"Do you mind if I carry you, miss?"

I lifted up my head just a little. No one called me miss unless I dragged my father out of the lab to go to a restaurant for dinner. I was too tired to comment on it, but must have had a strange look on my face. That, coupled with the jackhammer against my skull probably made me look a sight.

"Just pick her up, Steve," the red-head gestured, as my head started to tip to the side.

"Sorry about this miss—_Olivia_, but it's best if you don't faint."

I felt my body get lifted into strong, sturdy arms. They smelled of soap and cinnamon. I wanted to fall asleep in them until the pain left my head and my legs and my bones.

"You get used the politeness," Tony explained as my eyes started to drift shut. "Chivalry's not dead. Turns out it was just frozen for a while."

* * *

I dreamt in memories that weren't mine.

I saw New York City streets, plagued with people and cars and lights. My eyes hurt my head and my vision spun from the skies to the buildings, eventually landing on the filth of the street. Ground in gum, streaked dirt and water and a discarded coffee cup with lipstick stains. I could almost smell it.

I saw a place I didn't recognize. It looked like a farm, and I felt..._comfort_. The walls were wood paneled and dark but there were strange lamps all around the room, all shaped like various woodland creatures. The eyes of green scaled fish and black bears glinted at me under dim light bulbs.

Then I saw a building. From the outside, it was hard to tell what it was but I knew it was the east wing of S.O.T. headquarters. The bricks were dark red like dried blood, the windows tiny and barred, and the whole place smelled like bleach.

I spun into the pain.

I was hooked up to machines. I knew I was not in my own body. I looked down at hands—a man's hands, from the size and shape, with scars lacing them from the thumbs down to the wrist. I struggled to take a deep breath and found with horrifying dizziness that my lungs felt like they were underwater.

I spun out of it, afraid. This time my hands were feminine, with thin pointed fingertips. There was dirt under the nails but I had no time to focus on it, because all I could sense was a deep foreboding in my chest. I felt the panic rising like sea water, threatening to choke me. Even though I could breathe better than the previous man, my skin felt like fire and my heart was beating faster than I thought possible.

They injected the syringe right into my veins...

I jerked awake.

This time my pain was my own, but it wasn't as severe as it had been. I touched a hand tentatively to my hair and found a stiff bandage on my head. My brain was throbbing, but it was more of a distant and subdued jolt than a constant hammer.

I looked around the room I was in, which was really no more than a bed surrounded by bare walls. I guess they didn't think I was too wounded, because I wasn't in any sort of medical ward...wherever we were.

All I could remember was the name. S.H.I.E.L.D. Why did I agree to come? I didn't know what they wanted with me. Well, I had a hunch, but I didn't know exactly and I didn't know what they'd do to me, and who cares if they were superheroes? I came with strangers because I was pretty much delirious and now I was alone and afraid.

I tested my legs.

I could walk without feeling extreme dizziness, so I must have had some sort of medication. My socks slid on the floor but besides that my balance was alright.

There were no mirrors in the room, but I knew they'd cleaned me up. I ran a hand over my face and felt no dried blood. I was wearing new clothes too, just a simple black sweat suit. It was loose on me, like most things, and I could feel the ends of the pants dragging on the ground.

I could stay here, I supposed, wait until someone realized I was awake and then asked my questions. But I had them now. And what if they didn't come for hours?

I turned the doorknob, which was to my immense relief not locked. And then I followed the noises.

The hallways were deserted, which was odd, because I felt the conversations happening as if the walls were talking. I could sense an air of security around everything. The doors were all locked with mechanisms I knew I did not have clearance to pass through.

I soon came upon an elevator. I tried to press one of the buttons but a small black box beeped at me for identity validation. And since I was pretty sure I didn't have that, I kind of just stared back. They must be military or something up there to have this sort of gadget.

"Should you be wandering the halls?"

I breathed in sharply, a fresh stab of pain thundering in my brain as I whipped around. I stumbled slightly and I felt his arms steady my own as I looked up at him. He had ridiculously long eyelashes for a boy...

"Hi Steve," I said quietly, smiling sheepishly. "Just acquainting myself with the technology."

"I've been there."

He released me with caution and I straightened my spine, showing him that my equilibrium had for the time being returned. His scent enveloped me again but I swallowed not to make it too obvious that I was smelling people. My head injury was making me act like a crazy person.

"Fury is assembling the team," Steve said, clearing his throat and pointing in the opposite direction of where I'd come from. "I was sent to get you."

"I'm not...wearing shoes?" I said weakly, not feeling quite up to discussing my not so brilliant past with a group of people who saved the world. "I think I should wait a while."

Steve chuckled, crossing his muscular arms and narrowing his eyes.

"You're not quite as put together as I expected," he said, waving a finger at me. "But I do have authority to carry you there. _Again._"

I wasn't supposed to be bantering when I was busy self-loathing, but there was something calming about having Captain America believe you weren't a criminal.

"I suppose claiming my head hurts isn't a better excuse?"

"Not quite."

"Alright. Then I suppose I'll walk on my own," I said, looking wistfully down the hall.

"Come on, Miss Socks. It's just down here."

* * *

I felt like I was in a board meeting except I was new on the job and I'd forgotten my co-workers names and now they were all staring at me like I was an idiot.

Steve was on my left, the red-head who introduced herself as Natasha was on my right, and Tony winked at me from across the table. There was a Cliff or something and a Bruce in there somewhere, but I was more focused on the man with the eye patch across the table who was assessing me like a job interviewer.

"Welcome to the dream team," Tony said as all settled, outstretching his arms in both directions. "Minus the demi-god. But it's still a pretty good deal."

"Huh?"

"I'm Nick Fury," the eye-patched man said, ignoring Tony. "Let me just start by saying we appreciate your letters."

I couldn't help but think of the news footage of the attack in New York last year. Parts of it were no longer recognizable, but they had undoubtedly saved the world. I felt like I was in the presence of celebrities. I wondered if one of them was the Hulk...

"Are you listening Miss Hawthorne?"

I snapped out of my musings, feeling like a scolded child.

"We know about S.O.T. from you, but we've looked into them as much as possible. We know they're infecting innocent people, but we don't know why. We are afraid they're weaponizing diseases."

"I started to fear that," I said, the image of my father popping into my mind. "But the memories I saw were just about injections and pain. They didn't explain anything to them."

"Did you recognize anything? Read any labels?"

"No," I said, wishing like hell I'd been more observant. I think I was trying to block it out at the time. "My father and a man named Trevor Loman were the scientists and they handled most of the medical work. I didn't even see most of the labs."

"But you did have direct contact with a lot of important people."

"I suppose. It's just...I don't offer much in the way of assistance, I'm afraid."

_...Because I helped them. Because I saw horrible things happening to people, and instead of saying something I sat in silence and let the nightmares plague only me…_

"We disagree," Fury said firmly. "We'd like you to join us."

_As if it were that easy to wipe my plate clean and jump on the superhero bandwagon._

"You don't understand." I rubbed my temples. "You just...don't. I helped them. My father told me to help them! I wasn't paying attention, I wasn't quick enough, and then I had to leave..."

"What do we not understand Miss Hawthorne?" Fury asked, leaning forward in the chair so his black sleeved arms rested on the table.

"You're all...heroes. I don't fit into that. I'm not..." It felt odd to say it aloud at last, but I found myself believing it more and more these days. "A good person."

"We're not exactly all saints," one of the other men said lowly, eyeing me through his glasses.

I turned my head away but in doing so briefly caught the eye of Steve. His pure concern made me drop my gaze to my sweaty palms.

"This mission has a lot of redemptive value," Fury added, apparently not concerned with my embarrassment. "It's not always about being a good person, but you can become one by doing the right thing."

"I don't know much more than I wrote in," I repeated, feeling like a drone.

"You've been in their facilities. You've seen the memories of their victims. You've worked with them."

"Why aren't you scared I'm a traitor?" I asked bitterly. I could be, for all they knew. Even with my father dead, I could have been loyal to them, just like Trevor and all the workers and guards.

"Traitors don't worry about being bad people," Steve said beside me.

I looked at him in surprise and felt a blush creep up my cheeks. My stomach twisted painfully and I looked away from him, slowly turning my eyes back to Nick Fury.

"If you don't help us then we'll have to find them on our own," he prodded. "Hundreds, maybe thousands, might die. Whatever they're working with can spread. Whatever they're trying to do...they can succeed."

"You really know how to guilt a girl, don't you."

"Guilt can be a root of inspiration."

Silence enveloped us. It was odd how no one else spoke during the exchange, especially Tony who had eyed me with curiosity throughout the whole meeting. Before I had a chance to formulate any coherent words, an agent stepped into the room, his eyes guarded but impatient.

He shared a look with Fury, who nodded in return before turning his gaze back to me.

"Miss Hawthorne? I'm afraid we'll need your answer sooner than later."

I looked around the table. Tony's eyes were still curious. The man with stubble and glasses was biting his lip. The man next to him with the short brown hair was leaning back in his chair, twirling something in his fingers. Natasha was staring at me. So was Steve.

I closed my eyes and saw my dreams from just moments before. They were someone else's memories, and because of all I did they were now in my head. Because of all I did, they were probably dying somewhere, with no recollection of why...

"Alright," I choked, "Sign me up."

* * *

**Sorry this took so long! Honestly, I have more ideas for this one but more fans for my Bruce story, which is odd. Anybody out there?**


	5. Chapter 5

I pressed my locket between my fingertips. There was a dark red ruby in the center, and I ran my fingers over the edges, trying to remember it around my mother's neck.

_"She wore it when you were younger," my dad told me, "But you would always try to tear it off her neck."_

_"I don't remember that," I said softly, turning over the locket in my hands. "Thank you."_

_"My little girl only turns twenty-one once," he said, my birthday bringing out the softer, not as logical and sharp side of him. "She would have wanted you to have it."_

_"You gave it to her?" I asked, putting it into his outstretched hands as he strung it around my neck. I stared at his messy bookshelves as he fumbled with the clasp._

_"Yes," he said, his voice going quiet. "On our first wedding anniversary. She always loved rubies. It looked great with her dark hair. And yours," he added, smiling as I turned around._

_I felt the weight resting above my heart, and touched it again. It was cold against my bare skin, but I knew it would warm up quickly. It was nice to hear my dad talk about my mom, a topic he usually skirted around or ignored completely._

_"Thank you Dad," I said, leaning forward to hug him. He smelled like cleaning supplies and coffee, but I still inhaled deeply as he squeezed me once._

_"So you'll always remember us."_

_"Us?" I asked, raising an eyebrow._

_Before he had a chance to reply, there were three sharp raps at the door. The light from the small window made red flash in my eyes as I turned._

_"I have to go," my dad said, pushing off the chair he had started to lean against. He patted my arm once more before opening the door and revealing a wild-haired Trevor._

_"Your father is a genius." Trevor grinned at me._

_"It worked then?" my father asked excitedly. _

_I knew in just a moment I would be completely forgotten, and off to the labs they'd go. _

_"Too bad it skipped a generation," I muttered, rolling my eyes. It was hard, sometimes, to feel important when they were off making discoveries and I puttered around until needed._

_"Oh please," Trevor said, walking in a few steps until he was in front of me. "You can beat me in everything but science."_

_He kissed me quickly, aware of my father in the doorway, and even though he'd initiated it a blush rose in his ears. The rosy color made my stomach twist with happiness, despite my father's stern gaze. He was alarmingly good at melting my annoyance._

_"Well show me, Trevor, we don't have all day," my father said, clicking his heel on the hard floor._

_I wiggled my fingers at both of them, blowing Trevor a kiss just to see him blush a little more. My father's face turned into a frown before I patted my locket and mouthed 'Thank you' to him one more time._

_He nodded and walked back to his desk, grabbing his green notebook. He was old-fashioned that way. He placed his hand on my shoulder, lingering for a moment. I thought he'd say something, but instead he just followed Trevor out the door, leaving me with a fading warmth in my arm._

Thinking back, he had never gotten to answer my question. To "remember us" he'd said, not her, _us._ I don't know if he'd had a premonition, but now they were both gone and I was with strangers—heroic strangers, but still strangers, and nothing except the locket to tie me to my past. I tucked it under the loose gray shirt I'd been given. It made a small lump in the fabric, but it comforted me to have it so close to my skin.

Sometimes I missed Trevor. His short, warm kisses. His untamed hair. The humor that cracked through his shyness.

But I had stayed for him. I'd stayed too long—even when my heart told me to get out. Even when the nightmares grew so worse I couldn't sleep at all.

And if he had really loved me at all, they would have let me leave when I had the chance.

* * *

"But why her?" Steve asked, his brow furrowed. "Memory erasing would be beneficial to them...not essential."

"It seems they just cleaning up after themselves," Fury said, pausing to look into the interrogation room. The man that had attempted to kidnap Olivia was slumped in his chair, his face bruised and swollen and his hand bandaged to the wrist.

An agent was speaking to him, calmly to begin with, but the man wasn't budging an inch. It would take heavier tactics than that, and the growing creases in the agent's face were indication he'd begun to realize it.

"It just feels like..._more_," Steve said, sharing a look with Natasha who was surveying the situation with a frown.

Before Fury could reply, the doors behind them slid open, revealing another agent in a suit. His nametag was askew, but he held his arms behind his back as he addressed the Director.

"Sir," he said, his tone rushed. "Miss Hawthorne wishes to speak with you."

"Bring her in."

Steve sat up in his chair as Olivia entered. The bandage on her head was reduced to a small square that was a few shades darker than her skin. She had tried to hide it with her bangs but they were out of place as her eyes darted around the room.

"I thought of something that might help..." she said, somewhat uncertainly, her eyes locking with Fury. "It may be nothing, but it's all I can think of..."

"What is it?" he prompted.

"My father always carried around a journal," she said, her voice growing more confident as she spoke. "He _always_ wrote things down. I know he had one at the labs, but he kept one at home too."

"They'll probably have searched your home."

"It's in a place nobody knows about," she insisted. "Except me."

"What do you think is in it?"

Olivia's slight streak of confidence wavered—Steve could see it in the clouds that darkened her eyes.

"I'm not exactly sure. Experiments, findings, failures...it has to give us a clue, right? I can't make heads or tails of it, but maybe someone can."

"We can have Banner and Stark look at it," Fury said, "That's why we brought them on."

Olivia almost beamed. Steve wasn't sure if she was helping to help or helping to ease guilt, but either way she was eager to be useful. It made his chest squeeze a little. He knew what it was like to want to do something, and the satisfaction when you actually _could_.

"Captain?"

His attention snapped to Fury, the usual tone of authority causing his spine to straighten even farther.

"Sir?"

"Do you want to escort her?"

* * *

I suddenly wished I had kept my mouth shut, even though I knew deep down that wouldn't solve anything and I would have ended up blurting out about my father's journal at some point. But as an agent drove us on increasingly familiar streets, a balloon seemed to travel up my stomach and up to my throat where it lodged, making it hard to swallow.

Next would come the trouble breathing, and that tended to be something that I wanted to be able to do.

I tried to ignore the fact that this would be my first time home without my father being there. I tried to prepare myself in case the place was ransacked. My mind was full of unpleasant thoughts and with no one else was talking, the breathing thing grew worse.

So I did the only thing I could think of, which was to talk.

I noticed that Steve had been looking out the window the whole time. I wondered where he had lived when he was younger, and then was struck by the thought that it would look so different now. He might not even recognize it.

"So do people ask you all the time?" I asked, my voice coming out shy even to my own ears. "If it's different now? If you miss it?"

He looked surprised at first, and then an inexplicable look twisted his mouth into an almost frown.

"Not as much as you'd think." He shrugged, his shoulders hunching forward even when he finished. "Some people ignore it."

"So what's the answer?"

He paused, his blue eyes locking on mine. They were even brighter when the sun streaked in through the windows.

"Yes...but..." he trailed off. When he didn't speak for a moment, I prodded him again, hoping I wasn't pushing it too far.

"But what?"

"It seems to make me this...figure. Like I'm not even a person, because they don't know how to treat me."

"Well you are kind of unique in your position," I justified, lacing my fingers together.

"Yes but everyone thinks I'm so _vulnerable_ because I missed out on everything," he said, anger creeping in his voice. He seemed to notice and tried to even out his tone. "But most things are the same."

I raised an eyebrow at him. Somehow I doubted that—I had never met anyone quite like Steve Rogers at least.

"Alright, things _are _different," he conceded, giving me the smallest of smiles. "It's strange how things can be so different and familiar at the same time. How the world just...moves on without you."

"Everyone's happy you're here now," I said, trying to give him a smile back.

A flush crept up his cheeks which in turn caused my own ears to grow warm.

"You did, you know, save the world and everything...helped a lot," I said hastily, averting my eyes.

Handsome superheroes made me tongue-tied. I could hardly blame myself.

"I guess I miss the people the most," he said, his eyes leaving mine to stare out the window again. "I miss...everything that I couldn't do." His voice grew quiet. "Everything I was meant to do."

I didn't quite know what to say. I wasn't used to having such eloquent, deep conversations with people, let alone strangers.

"You know what's funny?" I asked, my words coming out before my brain could stop them. "We now live in a time where sincerity is a personal thing. People don't go around having deep conversations with people they hardly know...at least I don't. But...it's actually pretty refreshing."

Maybe it was because he was from a different time, but this was the first conversation in a long time where I didn't feel the need to be fake. To pick and choose my words. To wonder what the other person's ulterior motive was.

"We're here," the agent in the front seat announced, reminding me that we were actually in a car and headed somewhere and not in a café trading stories. Steve was looking at me strangely and I smiled slightly at him as I took a deep breath and opened the door.

It surprised me, somehow, that it looked the same. That my absence could only be seen in the overgrown grass or empty driveway. But there it stood, our two-story brick and blue shuttered house, with the creaky front door and the hideous mailbox shaped like a squirrel that my father had insisted upon buying.

"Agent Barton's got an outside view," Steve said, snapping into soldier mode. "The agent will stay in the car. Ready to go in?"

_No._ "Yes."

I don't know if it's because I was hesistant to go in, but I felt the need to tie up our conversation before the moment was lost and I delved back into a world where I couldn't pretend that I didn't have a hand in something awful.

"Permission to say something cheesy, soldier?" I asked, peering up at Steve now that we were on flat ground and he was almost a foot taller than me.

"Permission granted," he said, his smile almost visible.

"That whole thing you said before?" I asked, catching my breath as I started walking to my door. "Well maybe **this** is what you were meant to do."

* * *

The house was definitely searched. Our dark, comfortable furniture was all out of place, the sofa tilted away from the window, the chairs scraped across the wooden floors that now had muddy footprints. But even with that disarray, the real mess was in the papers and notebooks that were sprawled across everything. It looked like the desks and tables had thrown up a Charles Dickens novel.

"Well...I'd say they've been here," Steve said flatly.

I laughed, but I was upset and it came out as more of a choke. Steve looked at me in worry and tried to redirect the conversation.

"Do you think he hid it well enough?"

"I hope so," I croaked, my stomach twisting in angry knots.

I headed straight for my father's office, stifling the urge to cry when my home had been invaded, and hoping that they hadn't destroyed anything upstairs. The office had really been a den at some point but was now lined with bookshelves and cluttered with old microscopes, vials, and paperweights I had made him in art class when I was little. His desk was big and nestled in the corner, but it was the safe behind it that I was interested in.

I guess it should have been a clue to me then, watching my father stash away his thoughts in a locked metal box, that something wasn't right. But I had always just thought he was eccentric, a little too confident in his work, suspicious of everyone around him.

Now I was wondering if he wasn't suspicious enough.

I vaguely noticed Steve following me, his footsteps surprisingly light for his size. I broke into a jog when I neared the entrance to the room.

The safe was hidden like the ones on TV, but instead of having a painting on top of it, there was a bookshelf. My uncle was pretty handy and had rigged up a sliding shelf for my father a few years ago.

My only hope was that whoever broke in hadn't tried to move it.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I looked around. It was the same as the other rooms—papers dusting the floors like snow, things thrown aside and broken, but the bookshelf seemed to be in the same place.

"It's right back here," I told Steve, walking to the shelf and positioning myself to the right side.

I pushed it forward. It was harder than I remembered, and Steve moved to help me, but it creaked to the left before he had a chance. The hinges groaned but slid as I pushed it as far as they could go.

The safe was there, and unopened. I breathed out a huge puff of air and felt my body lighten, even if just for a moment.

"It's in there," I said, patting the hard metal.

"You know the code?" Steve asked, his tone clipped as he pressed a hand to his ear.

"Yes," I said, watching him in worry as he listened to his earpiece. "Why?"

"Open it quickly," he said, his hands curling into fists. "We've got company."

* * *

This story is not dead! Woo! I hope you haven't given up on Steve-let me know. :)

P.S. I don't usually like telling people exactly what my characters look like, but I am really picturing Andrew Garfield as Trevor for some reason.


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